Wilderness Days (16 page)

“Then we’ll die with the smell of skunk in our noses,” Jehu half joked.

“This is serious, Jehu.” I caught sight of pawlike indentations in the snow in front of the cave. “And what are those?” I demanded.

Keer-ukso crouched down.
“Leloo.”

Leloo?
I considered for a moment.
Le loup
meant “wolf” in French. I snapped my fingers triumphantly. “Wolf!” I announced. And then went pale. “Wolf,” I whispered.

“Smoke scare wolf,” Keer-ukso said.

The wind shifted, blowing past me to Keer-ukso.

“Or maybe Boston Jane scare wolf,” he said, wrinkling his nose.

I didn’t even dignify his comment with an answer.

The morning passed slowly, marked only by the accumulation of snow. I tried to pretend that the cave was merely our parlor at home. Except, of course, it was cold and dark, reeked of skunk, and was teeming with insects.

“I can hardly believe I attended Miss Hepplewhite’s Young Ladies Academy all those years to end up in a filthy cave,” I muttered irritably, drawing in the dirt with a stick. I stretched and banged my head on the cave roof. “Ow.”

Jehu raised an eyebrow.

“To think I had the fare for a voyage home. Which I still say I should have taken. M’Carty didn’t know what he was talking about. Mr. Black was a true gentleman.”

“Mr. Black, maybe he is
memelose
gentleman,” Keer-ukso joked.

“Whether Black’s a
memelose
or not, I don’t know,” said
Jehu. “But we’re stuck here now, that’s certain.” He leaned back, stretching. “And Miss Hepplewhite can be washed out with the bilge for all I care.”

I ignored him.

“I do know a thing or two about
memeloses
, you know,” Jehu added mysteriously.

Keer-ukso and I both stared at Jehu, curious.

“And I can tell you the story of Fanny Neale, if you care to hear it.”

Keer-ukso nodded and leaned forward. “Tell story.”

“It’s a true story.” Jehu crossed his legs and stared into the fire. “Fanny Neale,” he sighed, “was the prettiest girl on Cape Cod.”

Unaccountably, I felt a twinge of irritation at the way he said her name. “Did you know her?”

“You’ll have to listen and find out,” he said, his eyes taunting me. “See, Fanny had this long beautiful hair, like spun silk. It was the color of gold, and it was said that if you carried one of Fanny’s locks in your pocket you’d have a good sea voyage.” He patted his pocket as if he carried a strand there himself.

I pictured Fanny Neale in the cave, her hair falling around her shoulders like a cape, her eyes only for Jehu.

Jehu’s voice seemed to grow softer, mixing with the wind humming outside the cave. “Fanny Neale fell in love with a sailor, and they pledged their troth to each other.”

I felt a peculiar clenching sensation in my chest.

“The sailor was set to ship out on a voyage, and so they
agreed that they would marry upon his return. Each day Fanny walked along the beach, looking for her beloved’s ship to return.

“There was a terrible storm, and the rain battered the seas. Ship after ship was reported sunk, but Fanny Neale never lost hope. Still she walked the beach, waiting for her sailor.” His voice lowered an octave, and the fire flickered. “And then one day word came that her lover’s ship had sunk, and all hands were lost.”

I looked into Jehu’s eyes, remembering the terrible storm we had survived to arrive at Shoalwater Bay, and knew all too well how cruel fate could be. My maid, Mary, and the cabin boy, Samuel, had died during that storm.

“What happened?” Keer-ukso asked.

Jehu shook himself. “Fanny was heartbroken. She couldn’t bear to live without her sailor. So she threw herself into the sea and drowned.”

I gasped.

“But then, two weeks later, her sailor returned. He had managed to survive by clinging to a piece of wood. That, and the sure knowledge that his Fanny was waiting for him, kept him alive. When he found out that she had killed herself, he went down to the place where she had drowned and wept and wept. And there, on the sand, was a long thick lock of her hair, except it had turned green, become part of the sea itself.”

“Seaweed,” Keer-ukso whispered.

Jehu nodded. “And it’s said that you can always find Fanny
Neale’s hair after a storm, for she’s mourning and tearing her hair out for the sailor that she lost so long ago.”

The cave was quiet for a moment, and then there was a soft wailing sound on the wind, like weeping. Jehu’s eyes met mine, and held. What if he were lost at sea? What would I do?

“I know
memelose
story,” Keer-ukso announced, breaking the quiet.

I swallowed hard and said, “Please tell us.”

“All Chinook know, very bad luck to have bones of dead person near house. And worst luck to have skull of enemy near house,” Keer-ukso explained. “There was very greedy man called Kohpoh. Kohpoh wanted wife of another man. One day when Kohpoh and husband fished, Kohpoh killed husband and told woman that husband drowned. Woman cried very much and Kohpoh stayed near her. Soon, Kohpoh took woman for wife and lived in lodge of dead man.”

He lowered his voice dramatically.
“Memelose
of husband come to lodge at night and sing to wife with sound of frog.” And here Keer-ukso made a frog sound.
“Memelose
tell wife true story that he was killed. Tell wife to look for his skull on beach. Next morning, wife goes to beach and there is skull on sand, smiling at her.” Keer-ukso placed his hands under his chin and tilted his head to the side, showing his teeth. “While Kohpoh out gambling, wife put skull under lodge.”

“Then what happened?” I asked eagerly.

He arced his hand. “Terrible storm, and water came up to lodge and drag lodge into bay. And Kohpoh drowned. Next
morning everyone see skull on beach in same place where wife found it, and know husband had revenge.”

I shivered. Hearing about a malevolent ghost was doing nothing to soothe my nerves.

“Good story,” Jehu complimented. “I’ll have to remember that one.”

“Boston Jane, you tell
memelose
story,” Keer-ukso prompted.

“Well, I do know one ghost story,” I said. “I heard it when I was at Miss Hepplewhite’s academy.”

“This oughta be good,” Jehu said, clearly trying to lighten the mood. “Wait. Don’t tell me. It’s a tale about a man who died from holding a fork the wrong way.” He mimed stabbing himself in the heart with a fork.

“Very amusing,” I said. “It’s a story about a young lady called Clara. She was kind and thoughtful and obedient and good-tempered.”

“Good-tempered, eh?” Jehu interrupted. “What color hair did she have?”

“I don’t know. Red, I suppose.”

“Sounds a lot like you.”

“Oh! You’re insufferable. Brown hair, then. It doesn’t matter.” I took a deep breath and continued. “Clara took dancing lessons from a handsome young man called Ned. Clara fell in love with Ned, and for months never dared to express her true feelings. Until one day when he arrived at lessons with a bouquet of flowers and he declared his love for her. She confessed her own affection for him, and they happily promised themselves
to each other. Ned gave her a token of their secret love—a gold locket.”

“Pretty good for a dancing teacher,” Jehu commented.

“And she gave him a ribbon from her hair,” I said. “Then one day while out walking, Clara saw Ned kissing another girl. And this other girl was wearing the very ribbon Clara had given Ned! Poor Clara was so startled that she ran straight into the middle of Chestnut Street and was struck and killed by an oncoming carriage.”

Keer-ukso whistled low.

“That’s not much of a ghost story,” Jehu teased. “What does the ghost do? Come back and waltz?”

I ignored him. “From that day forward, Ned’s life fell apart. He could hear Clara crying outside his window at night. He couldn’t sleep, and his health failed. He grew haggard and pale, and one by one, he lost his students.”

“She sounds like a real nag,” Jehu quipped lightly, but it infuriated me.

“She was cheated by a cruel, heartless man!” I shouted.

“Finish story!” Keer-ukso ordered.

I took a deep, calming breath. “Ned started to see her everywhere he went. Finally he took to his bed and never got up.”

“He died?” Jehu asked.

“Yes. And it’s said that you can sometimes see the two of them dancing on Chestnut Street in the early dawn hours.”

“He should have changed name. She not find him then,” Keer-ukso said, nodding to himself.

“That’s a terrible story,” Jehu said in a disgusted voice.

“What do you mean? It’s a very romantic story. She forgave him and now they’re together forever,” I explained.

“Sounds like a raw deal to me. Spending eternity with some nag who drove you to your death?” he mocked.

“At least it’s better than marrying some man who only wants you so he can get more land!” I shot back.

“Who said anything about marriage?” Jehu said blandly.

“I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last man alive! You’re just as bad as William. When I marry, it shall be to a proper gentleman.”

Keer-ukso’s eyes flicked back and forth between us.

“A gentleman?” At this Jehu laughed coldly. “I think we are all acquainted with your good luck in finding gentlemen.”

I glared at him. “Well, you’re certainly not a gentleman.”

“Do you think this scar on my cheek makes me no gentleman?” he demanded. “I see you staring at it all the time.”

“You obviously don’t understand true love,” I snapped.

“You mean dying’s the only way to find true love? Don’t be a featherhead.”

“Don’t call me a featherhead!”

“I’ll call you whatever I please. Who are you to order me around?” He grabbed up his pack and pushed his hat low over his eyes.

“I’m a lady and I expect to be treated as such.”

“You’re a smelly pest, that’s what you are!”

“Well, you’re a foulmouthed, ill-tempered ne’er-do-well, and I can’t believe I’m stuck in a cave with you!”

“Well, you aren’t!” Jehu shouted back. “Not anymore!” And with that, he grabbed M’Carty’s rifle, stalked to the mouth of the cave, and without a backward glance he strode out into the storm and was swallowed up by the snow.

“Good riddance!” I shouted after him.

The snow fell steadily
all afternoon, each flake condemning me for my ill temper.

And Jehu did not return.

“He’s just doing this to spite me,” I said, staring out at the snow.

“Bad luck to tell
memelose
stories,” Keer-ukso said.

“No, it was bad luck for me to get dragged along on this foolish hunt!” I said, my voice strident. “Mr. Black is a gentleman. He is most certainly not a ghost bent on revenge, nor is he a murderer.”

Keer-ukso sat down next to me by the fire and said, “Mr. Black, why you say he is gentleman?”

“He dressed neatly, and was well-spoken, and had very nice manners.”

Keer-ukso looked thoughtful. “So does Boston William,” he said, his meaning clear.

“It’s not the same,” I said defensively. “Mr. Black is a good man.”

“Boston Jane, am I good man?”

“Of course you are.”

He touched his chest. “I have no Boston suit. I not speak well.”

“Keer-ukso,” I said.

“Is Mr. Russell good man?”

I stared at him. “No. Mr. Russell is a filthy, ill-mannered—”

Keer-ukso interrupted. “Mr. Russell is good man. Mr. Russell, he like you, Boston Jane.”

“He likes me?” I asked, astonished. “Is that why he yells at me all the time? Is that why he threw me out of the cabin into the pouring rain?”

“Yes,” Keer-ukso said firmly.

The afternoon crept along slowly, like a lesson that would never end. The wilderness had turned whisper-quiet, so that every soft rustle seemed muted. I sat at the entrance of the cave and watched the snow fall in soft sheets, lacy as embroidery. It hurt my eyes to look at all of that bright snow. With each hour that passed, my unease grew until it was a tangible thing in my throat, hard and lumpy. Keer-ukso joined me at the cave entrance, watching.

“I used to like snow when I was a girl,” I said with a bitter little laugh.

Keer-ukso didn’t respond. He seemed so solemn and distracted, staring into the snow as if looking for something he’d
lost. His graceful profile stood out against the white background. He looked like a statue that had been carved by a sculptor, his face so fine.

“I wish you’d change your name back to Handsome Jim,” I said softly. “Keer-ukso doesn’t suit you. You don’t have a crooked nose.”

He didn’t seem to hear me. “Oldest brother like snow.” His voice was a whisper.

“Your brother?”

He held out a hand and watched as the snow fell softly down onto it, his fingers closing smoothly over the fluffy, fat flakes.

“Wheeark,” he said flatly. “Died long ago.
Waum sick.”

Fever.

“Wheeark was most handsome. He always laugh at me and say I have crooked nose.” He rubbed a slight bump on his nose; it was barely discernible. “From when I was child.”

“What happened?”

Keer-ukso smiled sadly, his eyes wet. “Chase oldest brother up tree. Then fall.”

“Oh dear,” I said, and gripped his hand tight. He fixed his gaze beyond me on a thick drift of snow as if expecting to see his brother appear and laugh and tease him about his nose.

Perhaps it was the way he was sitting—so still—that made me want to do anything to take that grief-stricken look off his face. Or perhaps it was that we were in the middle of the wilderness, trapped in a cave, and he was warm and smelled good to
me. Or maybe it was just because I had wanted to do it for so long.

Whatever the reason, I simply leaned forward and kissed him.

It was a strange kiss, different from Jehu’s. It was softer somehow, and there was none of the electricity racing up my spine that had been there when Jehu kissed me, but still it was nice and warm and comforting in a way that felt good. It didn’t seem to matter anymore that Jehu thought I was a smelly pest. Here was a man who found me pretty, who thought I was worth kissing.